


Merlin had been confined before

by aineni



Category: BBC Merlin, Merlin - Fandom
Genre: 2020, COVID, Hope, M/M, Virus, arthur is resurrected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27975158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aineni/pseuds/aineni
Summary: Just a little something I wrote one day in June!
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon, Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merthur
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Merlin had been confined before

Merlin had been confined before. In spells, in chains, in dungeons. He knew what true confinement felt like – the inability to breathe, to cry out, to _think_ without straining against your bonds. Merlin knew what true confinement felt like, and this was much like it. A lockdown that stopped the neighbours from knocking at his door, a sickness that disallowed his daily walks, that kept him cooped up in a house full of ancient scrolls and outdated spell-work.

A kind of hopeless brewed within the magician, a hopelessness born of not being able to _help_. If the sickness was of magic, of runes or spells or poultices, Merlin could have puzzled it out. He could have created antidotes – found flowers, plucked plants – he could have enchanted medicines to help the ill, to heal. As it was, he had only his old bones and his creaky house. There was simply nothing to be done.

Once upon a time, he would have been looked to for a cure no matter the cause. Once upon a time, he would have been prodded and pressured until he had a solution. Once upon a time.

Now, instead, he had groceries delivered to his door. Boxes filled with fruits and meats and wines. Boxes that made him creak while lifting, that played havoc on his back and on his knees. Merlin may have been young once, but those days had passed along with his king. He went to bed early, woke late, complained about the cold that settled in his bones, and mourned the times that were over.

He didn’t mind growing old, exactly – but he hated doing so alone.

There were different kinds of confinement. In a cell, in the arms of someone you loved, in the knowledge that you’re the last of your kind. Everything could be a cage. Not all could be broken out of.

There was a sickness in the air, and Merlin had old bones and a tired soul. There was nothing he could do, so he went to bed.

In sleep he could see Arthur. He could remember the smile in his eyes and the promise in his heart. In sleep he could feel hopeful again – there remained a promise of Albion, of magic freed and blessed, of dragons and crowns and love. In sleep, they were young and full of prospect, a child with wild spells and a prince with arrogance to share. In sleep, they were eternal. Both of them.

Each morning he woke, and he wished. He wished for peace, for harmony, for a familiar face in this untameable world. He remembered tournaments, and tourniquets, queens and quests and executions. He remembered so much. So much pain, and so much happiness, and so many bodies laid into the lake, to find peace, to find slumber. (He wished, most of all, that Arthur would cease his slumber. That he would wake, wide eyed, full of that same promise. But he never did.)

Still, Merlin would wake, and he would ease his aching self out of bed, and the day would begin again. He existed in this Arthur-less world, and he did what he could as he waited for his return. For his king – for the man he loved most of all.

Merlin waited, and he aged. Seasons shifted and changed. Winters melting into springs, kingdoms being established and then wiped away, wars raged and won and lost. Merlin waited, and people suffered, and every time a new head would bounce from a guillotine, every time a man would suffer through final moments, unable to breathe, Merlin would look for Arthur – for his return. Surely, _surely_ this was when he was needed most.

Arthur never showed. And Merlin was losing hope.

Long after the tales of the King of the Round Table had been reduced to myth and legend, long after the knights and the castles and the dragons had become nothing more than children’s tales, a fool’s fantasy, Merlin, finally, gave up.

He had been confined before. But he had always had faith that he would be rescued – that Arthur would show up, all crooked smile and devilish eyes, and laugh at how easily the magician got into trouble, about what a nuisance he was to be around. He had had faith. It had gotten him nowhere.

Merlin, Emrys, the Last Dragon Lord, went to sleep.

It was a strange feeling, waking. It was a thing that came laden with the last dregs of dreams, a grogginess that was always hard to shake. Still, try to shake himself he did, stretching his arms above his head and letting out a gentle yawn. He shrugged on his clothes and hastily made his way to the kitchen, shaking the remnants of sleep from his mind. He was thinking eggs. For new beginnings, or something. For new—

Merlin the Magician faltered. He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

A third time, for good luck.

He hadn’t done anything _hastily_ in a long time, his body simply had not let him. And yet— He took a breath that did not shake before surveying his hands; a scar, here and there, but otherwise skin smooth, that of a young man. He stretched his arms above his head again, and found that his back did not protest, his knees not threaten to give. He was _young_ – his hands unwrinkled, his joints kind, his eyes full of promise.

_Arthur._

The young sorcerer rushed from the house, not stopping to don his shoes or take up his walking stick – not stopping for anything. He simply ran. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. And yet.

He ran until he was out of breath, until his ears were ringing and he could here his heartrate in his head. He ran, and his hope began to build. Maybe he would see the arrogant prince again, maybe he would see the boy who had challenged him to a duel those millennia ago, maybe he would see the one who had taught him loyalty, and courage, and love. Maybe he would see his king.

Hope is an incredible thing. He ran, and it built, and although he could see nothing but Arthur’s face in his mind’s eye, there was something else, too. He may have been confined in a magicless world, he may have been locked away from the sickness, but he would no longer be alone. And with company, with _love_ , together they could get the cogs turning again. He could learn how to help. They could learn how to help.

And there—on the bank of the lake where Nimueh once lay—there. A young blond man, coughing up water and clutching a sword.

Merlin was by his side in an instance, his hands around the man, a smile slicing his face in two. He was breathing. He was back. The One True King wrapped his arms around his best friend in return, and said, voice cracking, “Did you really miss me that much, Merlin?”

The magician’s laugh was a quick, light thing, but his arms tightened more around him.

“More than you can imagine, you clotpole.”

_Perhaps the prophecies were wrong. Perhaps it wasn’t Albion’s greatest moment of need that would raise Arthur from the lake. Perhaps it was Merlin’s._


End file.
